


Paradox of the Unreasonable Authority Figure

by TheDarkFlygon



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, School, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, Sweet, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: He'd have been better off staying in bed, today. His sense of duty, however, didn't agree with the idea.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 9





	Paradox of the Unreasonable Authority Figure

**Author's Note:**

> My brain slipped, then my hands slipped, then they danced together in a sloppy dance...  
> I've recently gotten into Pokémon Masters, which made me appreciate even more characters I liked already and made me attached to some I had forgotten the existence of. That's the case of today's lucky boy. Cheren is on my main team because, simply put, combined with Sygna Suit Red, he's broken (if you're curious, my third member can change, but I usually like to have Roark on board because I'm super self-indulgent).  
> I don't have a lot to say about this one. I don't really know why my brain thought it was a good idea, even less while I'm having variations of the idea in mind (for future fics? god I hope not). I just know I liked the idea and aesthetic and had to evacuate it so I could focus on another story (codenamed STTL).  
> I don't even know where I was going, I still don't know where it went actually. All I know is that I had to evacuate the plot bunny and I'm happy to finally have this partially out of my system. I'll absolutely regret writing and posting this by tomorrow, though.  
> In fact, I don't even know what canon this is supposed to be. It's mostly inspired by the anime because I have yet to replay Gen V. It feels too shallow of a characterization to be the games, so I won't dare doing so. And I've never gone past volume 2 of PokéSpe BW soooo... yeah. This isn't even on purpose this time lol, ENS was absolutely out of my free will, but this fic is stupid and out of my control.

Something’s wrong, this morning.

Well, it’s somewhat been this way for a few days, but it’s become difficult to ignore, especially when you’re starting to know yourself. It’s easy to spot when a thing isn’t quite right, even if you’re not an observant person in general. Some people can put it aside by focusing on something else but, as it turns out, that’s not what life has in store for him.

The truth of the matter is, it’s hard to ignore what’s wrong when he’s facing it in the mirror as early as half past six in the morning.

It didn’t exact start with staring at his reflection either. He isn’t used to waking up with lethargic, lead-heavy limbs and eyelids that won’t open themselves. That was the first sign, the second being a lack of motivation, and the third being an even bigger lack of an appetite. Not eating in the morning before heading for the school sounded like a terrible idea so he tried forcing on it, but his success was only halfway so: in actuality, food still made him slightly nauseous, a feeling that hasn’t quite left yet.

Even as he knots his tie around his neck, he notices how unusually pale he looks, deep rings under his eyes and red splattered on his cheeks, and how much he’s sweating. Nobody would find that weird if it was the middle of summer, but it’s only early April and the weather isn’t that warm just yet. He’ll absolutely get questioned about it, he better have an answer ready by then. Speaking of decisions, his shivering fingers won’t be able to put his lenses on correctly: it’s time to resort to his glasses, then.

After almost forgetting to take his binder filled with the assignments he’s corrected until late into the night yesterday (or was it this morning, technically speaking?), he finally leaves the house with a few minutes later than usual. He should be on time for classes, at least…

The questions wait for exactly the time he takes to reach the teacher’s lounge to fall upon him. There may be none of his colleagues, as he’s arrived fairly late and most of them have either left to prepare for today’s lessons or haven’t arrived yet; but that doesn’t mean there aren’t students coming to their lounge even early in the morning to ask questions.

He’s, as such, not exactly surprised to hear someone knock on the door and even less so when he soon faces Sarah. She may be one of the Gym’s official trainers, she’s still fighting against a certain number of insecurities whose exact count he’s not sure he can really keep track of at the moment. Blame it on the headache festering between his temples and the fact he’s forgotten to take medicine for it when leaving for work.

“Good… Good morning, sir!”

“Good morning, Sarah.” His voice sounds about as comfortable to listen to as it is to hear someone scratching a blackboard with a Liepard’s claws. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just… wondering if…” Her voice trails off before its tone turns sour, her face following. “…Sir, are you okay? You sound weird…”

“…huh? Oh, I’m… I’m fine. I don’t think I’ve understood your question, though.”

“That’s because I didn’t ask anything… Never mind, I’m sure I can find the answer to it by myself. S-sorry for annoying you, s-see you later, sir!”

On that, he watches her run off in the distance with a slightly swimming vision. He supposes he’ll get the answer to that later…

Well, he supposes he better get on with his day too. The class isn’t going to make its lessons by itself, isn’t it? That’s his whole reason for being here despite how rusty his limbs still feel. It’s like the fog of slumber hasn’t quite let out yet.

“-ren?”

He gets startled by the voice of Vincent calling out to him, almost pitching forward from his surprise. The older man is looking at him with a gaze not unlike Sarah’s earlier.

“V-Vincent?! Sorry, I didn’t see you coming. Good morning.”

His breathing makes his sore throat itch and he coughs in his elbow. He’ll have to put on his mask sooner or later.

“Good morning, Cheren,” his colleague replies, frowning eyebrows contrasting with his smirk. “It’s rare to see you wearing your glasses. How are you?”

“Well, huh…” He shouldn’t be this hesitant, should he? That’s a bad omen. As much as it pains him to do so, lying entirely to his workmate won’t be possible. “I’m a bit under the weather, you could say, but I should manage. How about you?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking. You don’t look much better than yesterday, are you sure you should be here today?”

“Sure” may not define his current mindset at the moment considering he has to lean against the wall for his legs not to buckle under his weight; but something similar will have to do, since he needs to reassure Vincent now.

“I should be fine for the day,” his throat doesn’t quite agree with the statement, coughing the second half of his reply out. “It’s nothing I can’t manage, at least.”

Vincent doesn’t seem to believe him.

“If you don’t feel okay, don’t hesitate to go to the nurse’s office. I’m certain the children will understand.”

“I… I’ll do.”

He picks up his binder and leaves the room. The temperature shifts as soon as he walks through the door, switching from sweat-inducing heat to shiver-triggering cold. Maybe the fogs of slumber letting up is a bad idea, as his head feels more stuffed than it did until then. He’s very much starting to doubt if it was a good idea to even get out from bed at this point.

No, he shouldn’t think of it this way and make it all about him. His students need him, don’t they? They’re even expected to come to class even if they’re sick with a cold, it’d be hypocritical of him not to show up because he’s not at one hundred percent of his capacity. It’s not like his body couldn’t push itself out of bed, then exit his place anyway; that has to mean he can go through the day. He’s probably been stuck in more dire situations during his journey throughout Unova anyway.

The temperature changes again when he steps into the classroom. It’s empty and silent, the smell of detergent covering the cleaned tables and board. Fortunately, he’s got nothing in particular to set up, that’s at least one thing he won’t have to force his lethargic limbs to do. Writing on the board should be fine enough… It’s never been a huge effort and he’s used to it, what could possibly dysfunction now?

Well, his legs, to begin with: a sudden vertigo spell sends him right into the desk’s chair without warning. He’s tempted to unmake his tie for a quick moment, the heat suddenly smothering him, but he doesn’t do anything of the sort in the end: he needs to remain properly dressed. Today is going to be one long, difficult day, it seems… Better get on with it and get his stuff out of his case, instead of internally complaining about how the temperature can’t seem to settle.

The jingle of morning classes rings through his head, rattling everything in its stead. It may be an exaggeration, at least, that’s until the noise of a bunch of children walking or running in the halls comes to worsen the situation. Better… Better ignore the pain and get to the door to then get them in.

He opens the door to the smiles of most of his pupils, Sarah included, and an assortment of different tones of “hello, teach!”. Forcing a smirk of his own isn’t difficult when he’s facing them, albeit it does need him some effort today.

“Come on in, everyone,” he tells them as they all enter the room.

As far as he knows, his students are usually calm and well-disciplined; yet he’s certain he’s not supposed to hear them so little. In fact, if he’s to compare it to something, it’s like he’s underwater: he can’t even hear _himself_ properly. Even his own words are muffle and, frankly, he’s having a hard time keeping track of his own notes. Today is supposed to be all about type matchups and yet he can hardly remember his type table at the moment… And who left the heating on all night? It’s like they’re in an oven!

“Can I open the window? It’s awfully warm in here,” he asks to the children sitting in front of him; but they seem more than perplexed at his proposition.

“What are you saying, teach?” Someone (he doesn’t recognize their voice nor their face) asks back. “It’s still cold!”

Everyone seems to agree with their statement, so he doesn’t add anything, instead attempting to go back to what he was saying (but _what_ was he saying? And the room won’t stop spinning, it’s especially aggravating…). Not that they seem to agree on his choice.

“Huh… Teach, are you okay?” Someone else (a girl, if he can trust the high pitch of this voice) asks him. “You don’t look so good…”

“I’m fine,” he forces out of his throat with a croak. “What was I saying? I forgot.”

“Something about how Grass beats Electric… but isn’t that wrong?”

“It is.” Why did he even say that? How did he get mixed up on such a basic rule? “Electric simply isn’t super-effective against Grass. That was what… I meant to say…”

His vision is dimming down in waves. The more he blinks, the darker it gets, and the quicker he’ll blink again. Dots are dancing around in front of him, covering the faces of his students, their voices growing quieter by the second. Surely this isn’t very normal, and it’s never happened to him before. Maybe shaking his head will make the dots go away? Well, it doesn’t cost anything to test out… this bad idea, downright terrible idea. It’s not making the room spin any less.

_Sir? Siiiiiir?_

Okay, okay. Time to sit to his desk. He’ll try to manage with a shorter arm. Everything’s going to be all good… As long as he reaches the chair… Okay, they’re all good now, he’ll be able to resume whatever he was saying about type advantages.

The class continues but he can easily tell it’s getting harder than it has ever had any right to be. Pushing on his voice was a terrible idea as he’s now on the verge of hacking a lung out every time he tries to explain something. He’ll absolutely have to pay the nurse a visit if he wants to make it through the day without resorting to failing his students. He’s not exactly putting himself through all of this physical exertion for his own sake, so he better can it and focus back on what matters: the lesson.

The headache isn’t letting up and his tie feels more like a rope tied around his neck than anything else. He can’t take it off in front of them, though, so it’ll stay on even if he has to suffer through the suffocating feeling of a heatwave followed by frigid air pouring through the sleeves and collar of his shirt. It clearly isn’t going to get better anytime soon.

Wait, why is everything so dark now? When did the dots overpower everything else to the point he can’t see anything anymore? Did he miss that by blinking too quickly at any point? Ah, that’s inconvenient… How is he supposed to read his notes if he can’t even see what’s in front of him? Maybe if he takes a nosedive in his paperwork and takes an impromptu breather… Maybe if he takes a second to rest…

Wait, this is a _class_ , he’s _not_ supposed to fall asleep—

* * *

Waking up is difficult. Heavy head, heavier body, heaviest eyelids; there’s very little chance he’ll rise up from bed this morning. Still, he’s supposed to have won a lot of battles before taking on this mantle, so he better get on with his day. There are people counting on him to educate them and, very clearly, their class isn’t going to make itself on its own, so—

“You’re finally awake! How are you feeling?”

As he’s rising on trembling arms, he faces the familiar face of Nurse Angela staring right at him, her eyes staring right into his. His sight is blurry, so he can’t distinguish much, but he can absolutely notice something: this can’t be the classroom he’s supposed to be in.

“Is this… Is this the infirmary…?”

“It sure is. Do I need to explain to you how you ended up here?”

Vague memories come back to him. Something about nosediving into his desk after his glasses fell from his face… It’s all very hazy yet more than enough to piece together a possible scenario.

“I… don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

She spins around on her chair, picking a couple tools here and there.

“Your students were _terrified_ for you; do you know that?! It’s not every day that your teacher passes out in the middle of class!” She then hands him a thermometer. “You’re old enough to put that under your own tongue.”

There’s no point in arguing against her, especially when he can’t find the energy or wits to respond properly: he’s better off doing what he’s asked to, even if it sounds eerily similar to being a scolded child.

“I don’t think it’s anything bad. You just _had_ to run yourself to the floor, did you?”

He stares at her, picking the thermometer out of his mouth as soon as it beeps. He only notices a couple details now that some of the fumes of slumber have risen up: his tie is missing from his neck, there’s something wet pressed against his forehead, and his glasses are nowhere to be seen. That’d explain why his vision can’t focus much at the moment if he has both eyes opened.

“38.8,” she reads out loud for him. “Thank the gods it’s lowered a little since earlier. Still, it’s nothing to sneeze at, and you’re better off going home before it devolves into worse than a full-blown flu bug. This reminds me, I wanted to ask you something…”

Her gaze instantly cools down right as she hands him back his glasses.

“…Why did you even come in this condition?”

He slowly puts them back onto his face, his grip on their branches feeling unstable.

“For them… Most students come to class even when sick, it’d have been inappropriate of me not to do so either.”

“My good sir, these children _do_ stay home when they’re sick with the flu. Your fever must have cooked your brain for you to have forgotten you also approve of their absences when it’s worse than a cold.”

“Well, that’s right, but… Isn’t a teacher always supposed to be here for his students…?”

“You are aware teachers are also allowed to take sick days, right? Please tell me you do, I’m getting scared about your mental wellbeing.”

“R-right, but…” He’s got nothing more to rebut against her with. What he did was too stupid and possibly too dangerous to excuse. “…right.”

“Vincent told me he’d bring you to an actual doctor at lunch, so you stay here and rest until that happens. I better not see you roam around.”

“Even for…?”

“Except if you _really_ need something, but then you better get back here as soon as you’re finished. I don’t want to carry you here yet again.”

“…understood.”

Well, now is a time as good as any to clean his face. It feels too hot for its own good. Just be slow and careful, it should be fine otherwise…

The corridors are empty at this time of the day, as expected. It’s the morning break, so nobody roams around unless it’s to use the bathroom or get something they’d have forgotten in their bags. If he was out cold until moments ago, Vincent must be watching over the playground. If everything is right, he’ll be able to go back without crossing paths with any—

“Sir?”

He turns around almost quickly enough to send his head for an unfortunate spin, finding himself face to face with none other than a very familiar student. She looks part amused and part concerned.

“Ah, Sarah, I didn’t… expect you to be here at this time,” he coughs into his elbow. He’s forgotten to put back a mask after exiting the infirmary.

“Sir, you… you’re okay…?”

Her voice is hesitant and filled to the brim with genuine worry. Poor girl.

“Not… really, I suppose,” there’s no point in lying to her except pour salt on the wound. “But I’ll be fine soon. Go back to your friends, okay?”

She nods timidly, before her face goes red.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s just that… you’re not wearing any shoes.”

Oh, huh… Better get back to the infirmary before Angela snaps back at him again!

“H-have a nice day…!” He tells her as he walks back to where he came from, head lowered in light-hearted embarrassment, clearing his throat for more than one reason.

While he slowly makes his way through the now-familiar corridors, his mind goes for a jog. How is he going to catch back on the time they’ll lose? And how much time will that have to be? (He almost smashes headfirst into a wall). Is someone going to substitute for him in the meantime? Will they need the notes he hasn’t even finished preparing yet? (He narrowly crashes into a student). And what if it’s worse than they think? What if he can’t come back for the end of the week, or even worse, the next? (He almost unceremoniously crashes into the infirmary).

Well… Overthinking things and asking a bunch of questions he can’t have precise answers to clearly won’t improve his headache. He should just go back to sleep to recover some of the energy he hasn’t properly had in days already. That’d do him a lot more good than obsessing over an issue he has no control over anymore. Should have been more careful before it was too late…

And here he goes again, thinking instead of sleeping. It’s already uncomfortable to fall asleep and stay that way with all that’s going inside of his system, so he better make his mind can it as soon as possible.

* * *

The flu has landed him home for a week (…and a half for convalescence). At least, the colleagues gave him the chance to tell them about what he had come up with for the rest of that time’s classes, even if they stopped him regularly. His sense of perfectionism has rung multiple times and hasn’t let up, even as he lies in bed coughing his heart out, disturbing even further his attempt at sleeping the illness off.

Were two very poor hours of class worth making himself so miserable? Probably not, but it’s also too late to regret anything without feeling the frustration of not being able to do anything about what’s already done with. It’d be more efficient to just forget about this embarrassing morning and act as if it never happened.

The doorbell rings throughout his empty house, echoing against the walls sunk in silence. The blanket feels too heavy to push against and his limbs are closer in consistence to wooden chopsticks than actual arms and legs. Still, someone is asking for him: it may be for a package he forgot he had ordered, it may be a neighbour in need of something, it could be a concerned friend… He has to get the door.

Getting out of bed has no right to be this difficult, yet he pulls through the temptation to immediately embrace the comforting softness of the mattress, puts on the first sweater he can find lying around his bedroom, and brings himself to the doorframe. Turns the key around, click-clack ratting lightly against the headache that hasn’t entirely left yet, and faces a workmate.

“Good afternoon, Cheren. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Oh, hello Vincent. You’re not interrupting anything, I was just… trying to sleep, honestly.”

“I see. Well, you look much better than you did the last time I saw you. This is sure to reassure the children.”

He can’t quite put into words how his heartstrings tugs as soon as he hears this. Aren’t children this age supposed to like it when they can miss class and have more fun outdoors? They should be happy he’s away for a couple days, shouldn’t they? Or did he just look that awful that day?

“Have I made them worry…?”

“Of course you did! They’ve asked after you a lot these past few days. What should I tell them?”

“That I’ll be back soon. I guess there’s no point in asking them not to worry…”

“There really isn’t. Do you need help with anything?”

“I should be all good, thank you for asking.”

Vincent smiles, handing him a box anyway.

“The children insisted to give this to you. I’ll now take my leave; I wouldn’t want to disturb you for too long. Have a nice evening, take care.”

“Goodnight.”

The door closes soon after he gets to see his colleague leave the premise in his car, leaving him on his own with the mysterious box. It’s not very heavy, which he’s grateful for considering his arms are still very much stiff from the lethargy and the failed attempts at resting, so he quickly puts it on the nearby table and opens it. It isn’t sealed by anything, not even tape. He won’t complain, considering this makes his life easier.

The box confuses him. What’s the point of giving something to him now? And of this nature? He doubts it’s anything harmful, because that wouldn’t make sense, and surely he’d have suspected something to be wrong by this point. There’s only one thing to do if he wants any answer to his questions.

The contents of the box are as much of a surprise as the box itself: it’s filled with paper sheets and a couple items here and there. Tissues, a thermos bottle, more papers… This seems to be some sort of self-care kit, except it’s been put together by someone rather than a company. It doesn’t seem like all these sheets are here to protect anything, considering nothing in the box could break.

Reading the first paper he puts a hand and removes from the ensemble immediately gives him an answer: it’s, indeed, been put together by his class. The words put down in a slightly sloppy writing don’t fail to warm his heart, which he physically perhaps doesn’t need since his fever is just starting to break, but it doesn’t fail to reach his goal.

He goes back upstairs with the box in his arms, carefully putting it down next to the bed. He better take the opportunity given to him by a subduing headache to read nice words of attention and concern, as not reading any of these letters would be an injustice. It’s not like he doesn’t have the time to do so anyway: better take that opportunity and soothe his mind from all the guilt and the mental turmoil he often puts himself through.

He’ll learn his lesson, one day. It won’t be today, but he will, eventually. It just takes much, much longer for some, it seems.


End file.
